Open Wounds
by Penelope Lane
Summary: The idea came to me after thinking about plot holes surrounding healthcare and hospitals in the game. Ivy is an ex-nurse who is roped back into tending to guys injured on the job. She doesn't want to be connected to that life anymore, but the stakes are high and she has no choice. Rating could change later. please leave feedback and thoughts!
1. Chapter 1

"It'll only be for special circumstances." Lester persisted.

Silence on the other end of the line.

"Only for gunshot wounds…and the like."

"We've been here before, Lester." Ivy sighed tiredly. She stared at the clock on the stove. She had work in twenty minutes. The afternoon light streamed through the jalousie windows in her small kitchen. Too small. Mirror Park was getting so expensive these days.

"I know. I know." Lester said calmly, but Ivy could hear the tension seeping into his words; he was desperate, especially if he had contacted her. It meant there was no one else. "How's…how's your dad doing?"

Lester let the words linger in the air for a moment. He felt Ivy take a heavy breath.

"Not good."

"I could set up a cut for you. Each heist. You'd be able to go back to South Yankton and see your father. Get him the treatment he needs." Lester spoke quickly, enthusiastically. He really needed her.

Ivy hesitated. She knew this would be money—real money. She knew it was real; she'd had it when she worked with Lester before. But she'd lost it all, too.

"Fine."

"Really?" Lester asked, incredulous.

"Yeah."

"So what hospital are you working at now?"

"I'm not working at a hospital." Ivy swallowed hard. What was she getting herself into?

"Where can we send them then?"

"My apartment, I guess." She shrugged and looked around at the midcentury abode she shared with her dog Charlie. "But I'll need supplies."

"Sure thing!" He replied, "You still in Mirror Park?"

"Yes."

"OK," Lester said in a tone that reminded her of the old days, "I'll give you a ring on the burner when we have a job."

"OK."

"Thanks, Ivy." He finally let out a sigh of relief, "You're a lifesaver."

He was buttering her up. "Right."

Ivy could feel it coming and barely let the burner phone ring once before picking up and responding to Lester's job call. It was three a.m. on that next Saturday that the knock—the pound—on the door came. She stumbled out of bed and found her way to her door. Charlie, ever aware, was at her side, his ears erect and his nose sniffing the gap in the door with suspicion.

"Who is it?" She called out the requisite question as she pictured the location of her handgun in her living room closet. Perhaps she should have it with her. Too late.

"Lester….sent me…" The voice, muffled and breathless, came from beyond the door.

There was a stumble and a thud.

Ivy opened the door while keeping the chain latched. In the bottom of the doorway, she saw a crumpled man with bloodstains all over his jacket. He'd passed out cold. She closed the door, unlatched the chain, and he tumbled into her living room when she'd opened it again.

He was alone, which was unusual; those sent by Lester traditionally had at least one person with them, either for aid or because it had been a two-man job. Very rarely did she ever get a solo job.

Mustering all of her strength, she lifted, or dragged, him onto her kitchen table which would now serve as an examining/operating table. She assessed him quickly and found several lacerations, contusions, and three gunshot wounds: the upper left arm, the lower right abdomen, and the foot. She raced through her apartment quickly, gathering any and all items she would find useful for the impossible task before her. Lester hadn't come through with the needed supplies yet and so she would have to make do with her sewing kit, scissors, tweezers, hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol and leftover antibiotics.

Ivy then went about the process she knew all too well as a Los Santos emergency room nurse: treating gunshot wounds. Judging from the old scars on his body, this man had been through a lot, though there were relatively few recent scars. It seemed he had taken a break from the mayhem of life on the lam. She briefly wondered as she treated the wound in the back what caused him to re-enter this line of specific work. Perhaps he had few choices, like she did. As she finished bandaging the last wound, the patient started to stir.

"Sir?" She managed as she realized she didn't even know his name because she didn't have time to search for a license (and very rarely in these cases did she ever find one).

He groaned and mumbled something inaudible.

Ivy pursed her lips and retrieved a throw pillow from the couch. She lifted his head gently and slid the pillow under it. He blinked and, for the first time, locked eyes with Ivy.

"Where am—" He tried.

"Somewhere safe." She replied simply and laid a calm hand against his shoulder to quiet him.

He drifted off again. Ivy stayed up to watch over him, and he seemed to be tolerating his injuries well. As the sun began to rise, the man opened his eyes in response to searing hot pain that coursed through his body. He winced audibly. Ivy, who had only dozed for a few minutes, shot up from the couch and sprinted into the kitchen.

"Motrin." She replied, "it's the best I have right now. Can you try to sit up?"

He nodded, still in pain, and switched his position so that he was resting against the wall beneath the hanging wire fruit basket.

She presented him with two tablets, and he swallowed them quickly without water.

_Seems we have a tough guy here_. She thought.

"You new?" He asked tersely.

"No…not really. Are you new?"

He gave one short laugh before wincing again. "No. Not at all."

He tried to move to get himself off the table, but his legs failed him. Fortunately, Ivy caught him in her arms.

"I think I can handle this—" He started.

"Sure," Ivy placated him, "but why don't we move you to the couch. You'll be more comfortable there."

He silently relented and allowed her to assist him to the living room.

She smelled really good, he noted. "You have a name?"

"Yes, I do." She helped him sit down and then lifted his legs onto the couch. He winced again.

"What is it?"

She raised her eyes to him as she covered him with a blanket, "It's Ivy."

"…Like the poison kind … or…?" He managed a half smile.

"Yeah… like the poison." She sat next to him and put her stethoscope buds into her ears, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, and placed the disk onto his exposed chest. She watched the second hand on her watch and felt his eyes on her.

After a minute, Ivy spoke, "things look good."

"When can I go?" He asked.

She removed her stethoscope buds from her ears and swung it around her neck as she considered his question. In a hospital, he would have to stay for a few days. Here, there were no rules. "Probably pretty soon. I'll check the rest of your vitals, but you could go today. You should rest now though; you've lost a fair amount of blood. I'll send you the cleaning bill."

"Fair enough." He smiled, his eyes never leaving her. "So, Ivy, what do you do when you're not sewing up crooks like me?"

She reached over and laid her palm on his forehead, and he relished her gentle touch. "Let me get the thermometer."

Ivy got up and went into the kitchen. She returned and stuck the thermometer in his mouth. Even so, he asked the question again, then added, "you a nurse at the hospital? Can I get you to treat me there—you know, for _other_ stuff?"

Ivy pretended to straighten the books on the coffee table and ignored his penetrating gaze while she waited for his temp reading. "No. Not anymore. I worked with Lester on the side, and I got fired for it."

"I see." He said as she took the thermometer out. "But you still work with him?"

"Just started again."

"Hmm. Me too." The man said, sensing that she didn't want to talk to him. He didn't want to push her. He knew he'd be coming to visit her a lot.

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he awoke again in the early afternoon. Ivy took his vitals again, and, as she deemed everything normal, she gave him the OK to go home.

"First though," she said, "Remove your shirt and sock and I'll change your bandages."

The man was more than obliging and did so obediently while gazing fixedly as she prepared the bandages.

"These need to be changed regularly." She stated.

"Yeah…I know." He responded as he watched her work. The man took the time to study her: bright blue eyes rimmed with impossibly long lashes, auburn hair pulled into a simple ponytail, and a small, slight stature that surprised him; she'd been bearing his weight around the apartment like a champ. He found he reveled in her fingertips brushing against his skin as she applied the gauze. The voice of reason was muffled in his brain: he'd been working on this in therapy. He knew if he couldn't control himself, she could spell trouble for him. But now that he was back in the life, he'd see her now. And he'd depend on her. He had to keep her at a distance.

She finished up and helped rebutton his shirt. "There. You're all set."

Ivy showed him to the door, and he turned to her right before he stepped out. The man dug into his wallet and pulled a wad of cash from it. "Here. For you."

"Thank you, but Lester will be paying me my cut."

"I insist."

"No, thank you, though."

The man paused and then put the money back in his wallet. "Let me at least take you to dinner. As thanks."

Ivy cocked her head and suppressed a smirk. This was not the first time she'd dealt with this situation. But she let him play the suave tough guy again.

"No, that won't be necessary."

The man gave a lop-sided smile and told her, "soon, then. I'll take ya somewhere nice."

_So much for staying out of trouble._ He thought.

Ivy nodded resignedly as he stepped out.

"By the way," he said as he put on his sunglasses, "my name is Michael."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Michael."

"Oh, believe me," he said, throwing the words over his shoulder as he walked down the outdoor steps of her complex, "the pleasure is all mine."


	2. Chapter 2

Later that evening, a few hours after Michael had left, there was a knock at her door. Ivy, steeling herself, glanced into the peephole. It was a woman in a smock with cleaning supplies.

"I'm sorry, I didn't—" she began through the door.

"No, miss," the woman replied, "I've been sent specifically to your apartment. 4B, yes?"

Ivy breathed as she realized who had sent the cleaning woman. She let her in, and the woman quickly got to work, completely unperturbed by the ghastly scene in Ivy's kitchen. It seems she was a cleaner—_that _type of cleaner.

Ivy let the woman do her job—no doubt she was being paid well—and retreated to her bedroom. Of course, it was much more convenient to have someone else scrub the blood off of her kitchen floor, but she shivered at the thought of being at all beholden to him. The next time he showed, she would have to be clear. Set boundaries. It seemed he had issues with that.

Two weeks later, after two others had gone to Ivy for aid, he showed up at her door again. It was a Thursday at seven o'clock in the evening and she had been eating dinner. Ivy ushered him into the kitchen to assess his injuries. She glanced over him and frowned a little.

"Some minor lacerations. It doesn't look like you need stitches for these." She commented as she held his face in her hands, guiding his head around slightly as she surveyed his cuts. "Seems a first aid kit would do the same job as me here."

Michael turned the corners of his mouth down and shrugged as he watched her grab a few butterfly bandages. "I was in the neighborhood, and it's rush hour…that traffic is murder… so…"

Ivy dragged a chair up to him, sat down, and pressed a cotton ball into some rubbing alcohol. She then rested her fingertips of her right hand at the bottom of his chin to steady him while she dabbed a two-inch cut above his left eyebrow. He drew a sharp intake of breath, and she paused, suppressing a small laugh.

"It stings. Dammit." He muttered.

"Judging from your scars, I'd say you've had much worse." She smiled a little to herself as she continued but caught Michael's eyes. He had an expression on his face that she could not interpret.

"I'm sorry—" she started, "I didn't mean—"

"No, it's OK," he said, "it's just…"

He trailed off and she hyper focused on cleaning the cut through the silence.

"It's just," he began again, "no one's ever…commented on them." He cleared his throat gruffly.

"I'm sorry…I overstepped." Ivy squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, "It was unprofessional."

"It's OK, really." Michael insisted and turned his attention to the plate across the table from him. Eager to change the subject, he gestured to her dinner, "what's on the menu tonight?"

"Chana Masala."

"Huh." He said, turning back to her, "don't know what that is, but I'm sure you're a good cook."

"Ha!" She smiled as she grabbed the butterfly bandage, "I'm not sure about that. I know it's just easy. Hold still."

She stood over him, and gently placed the bandage above his eyebrow. He looked up at her as she went on to tend to his other minor injuries. He felt their interaction was missing something… but he couldn't put his finger on it. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had touched him like this.

In that moment, Michael understood what he figured was missing: money.

Amanda had not touched him in years, and he sought relief elsewhere—in transactions.

Was this a transaction?

He honestly couldn't tell. She wouldn't accept his money the first time; his offer had been out of habit, and he felt awkward without the expectation of a quick cash slip at the end of the evening. Which reminded him…

"Did the cleaner come?"

"Yes, she did, but you don't have to do that in the future. Thank you, though. I appreciate it."

"If I make a mess, I clean it up." Michael chuckled. "Or, at least, pay someone to."

He surveyed her face for a reaction. She was busy, still at work.

But what service, exactly, was she providing him?

Sure, medical care. In a most basic sense. But her soft touches, her smiles, that was something that strippers, prostitutes, and his wife hadn't given him. When her fingertips made contact with his skin, it forced him to a place he hadn't ever been before.

He came to her with a problem, whether physical or mental, and she took care of it.

She took care of him.

Of course, she was getting paid—just not by him. He pushed that thought from his mind. He allowed himself to close his eyes while she dabbed another cut on his neck. He exhaled with a small sigh, as relaxation got the better of him.

Ivy snapped her kit closed and the sound brought Michael from his Ivy-induced trance.

"Oh—sorry—" he blinked for a moment.

"No worries." She said as she washed her hands at the kitchen sink, "I'm used to it."

"Are you?" Michael stood and patted a bandage with a small wince.

"My day job is working as a massage therapist." She dried her hands on the kitchen towel that hung on the stove handle.

"A massage therapist!" He exclaimed jocularly, "well why didn't you tell me? Where do I sign up?"

Ivy smiled and inwardly cringed. She'd been here before, too.

"I thought you were a nurse."

"I used to be."

"…used to be…"

"I used to accept…clients…from Lester while at work," she explained quickly as she smoothed her hair. "And I got caught. And nursing in Los Santos is…rough….it got to be too much…so, I switched careers."

"You're at a hotel now? Spa?"

"A spa. In Rockford Hills." Ivy pursed her lips. She'd already told him too much.

Michael nodded, but said nothing, he just stared at her.

"All right," she said as she went to her front door, "you're all set."

"OK, then." Michael grabbed his keys from the table and followed her. "Enjoy your dinner then."

Ivy opened the door for him, and he stepped out, but turned once he was on the landing.

"I still owe you that dinner, though," he pointed at her and jogged down the stairs.

A certain part of Ivy's brain turned off when Lester's guys showed up at her door. Usually it was in the dead of the night, and she could almost fool herself into believing it was a bad dream. But the dried flecks of blood on the side of the refrigerator would wrench her back into reality the next morning. They quite often would show up and then leave all under the cover of darkness, but some had to stay. Like Michael had.

Michael.

Ivy hadn't seen him since that second night.

As she went at her refrigerator with a sponge and bleach, she found herself thinking of him. She knew full well that _all_ of these guys were beyond bad news. There was no fishing into the dangerous criminal sea looking for a suitable date. No fucking way.

Against the screaming—and dying—voice of reason in her head, she thought of Michael and what she would have thought of him had she met him at Entire Eats or Merchant Jake's. But what was the use of wondering?

She kept scrubbing and kept thinking.

The first wire transfer came in that morning—it was a huge chunk of cash for her. She sent half of it back to her dad in Guillaume, South Yankton. Times were tough back there (as usual) and he needed it for meds. She tried to focus on that silver lining and kept scrubbing.

Perhaps she could afford a new refrigerator.

Ivy glanced at the clock—thirty minutes until her date with Pete.

_Dear God_. She thought. _At least it'll be a distraction_.

Ivy had insisted that they meet at the restaurant. It was date three and she wasn't sure enough of him yet. He seemed nice enough, but she'd been burned one too many times to take any chances. She kept her makeup and her outfit simple: jeans, pumps and a t shirt that showed just enough for a third date. Ivy decided to let her hair down this time; every move was calculated and planned. She found that organizing herself before a date proved useful: things got predictable, which she could appreciate in her chaotic life.

Pete was on time, and Ivy took note of it. He was standing outside the restaurant as she walked up.

"Did you put your name on the list?" She asked him after a quick hello.

"I have reservations for us."

She smiled without exposing her teeth. He just scored more points. She kept a tally in her head. He was also dressed quite nicely.

The restaurant was a little bit expensive, but quite good. From Ivy's high-profile massage clients, she'd heard glowing reviews, so she was dying to try it. And that night she saw quite of a few of them there.

The dinner itself went well, she decided, but it was nothing special. Conversation was fine, she supposed. Pete was a nice guy. Boring, but nice. He might just work out.

After the meal but before that third glass of wine, Ivy excused herself to the restroom to reapply the lipstick that she was hoping Pete knew how to properly mess up later on. When she emerged back into the small hallway from the restroom, she came to face to face with… him.

"Hi." Was all she could muster. What was he doing here?

"Fancy seeing you here." His voice was almost a growl. He was much taller than she had remembered. He smelled of expensive cologne, which threatened to draw her closer to him. She hadn't noticed that before. Perhaps the gun smoke and the blood had overshadowed it.

"You like this place?" He asked.

"Yeah. It's good." Ivy said quickly, "listen…"

She trailed off and glanced into the dining room of the restaurant. Pete was reading the dessert menu.

Michael, who had stolen a look at the swell of her breasts against her thin shirt, leaned into her as a way to encourage her to continue her thought. When she brought her gaze back to him, he was ready with obedient eye contact. She took one step back.

"Maybe we shouldn't be seen together." Ivy finished in a low voice.

"Why not?"

"Well…I mean… you know…" She moved to go, but Michael made a slight move which kept her in her place. He knew how to not make a scene.

"No, I don't know." He said, "we're friends, aren't we?"

"I mean…" Ivy smiled to be polite, but she found she didn't actually know the answer, "I don't know. I don't think we should—"

She glanced at Pete again, and this time Michael followed her gaze.

"Oh. I see." He said in a rehearsed tone as he took a step back from her. "Big night, then?"

Ivy gave a small shake of her head while avoiding his eyes and didn't answer him. She exhaled a little unsteadily; the emotion coursing through her at that moment was hard to comprehend. Fear? Anger? Arousal?

"Who's the guy?"

Ivy held her clutch to her chest and tilted her head to him. "You don't know him."

"I know I don't, which is why I'm asking."

"I've got to go—"

"Listen," Michael said, holding up his hands in a peacemaking fashion, "I didn't mean to—I don't want—I just—I'm just saying hi. Hi."

"Hi."

"OK." Michael swept his arms in the direction of her table and presented her path, "Have a nice evening."

"Thank you. You as well." Ivy gave him an awkward, curt nod when she concluded that nothing else would suffice.

Her heart racing, she sat back down with Pete.

"You want the chocolate lava cake?"

"Sure."

"I also got you a Moscato." He said, "You like that, right?"

"I was drinking a dry Riesling but… yes, Moscato is… fine."

Peter flagged down the waiter, who came over with a glass of wine on his tray.

"We'll have the chocolate lava cake." Pete told him.

"Certainly, sir." The waiter replied, then placed the wine down in front of Ivy.

"Um…I already got my glass of—"

"From the gentleman at the bar, miss." The waiter removed the Moscato and left them.

Peter whirled his head around to the bar and Ivy wanted to slide low into her seat. Michael, with two fingers of whiskey in hand, gave them a nod and a cheers.

"You know him?" Peter whipped back around to her.

"He's…he's one of my clients."

"Do all of your clients send you drinks?"

"No, they don't."

Pete glanced over at Michael again, who was sipping his whiskey, staring at them.

"Who is he?"

"I…I don't know his line of work. I just know him from the spa."

"Hm." Pete's expression changed, and he turned back to Ivy. "You know…you should finish your wine. Eat the cake, too. I'm gonna head out."

"No, Pete—please—"

"No, no. It's fine. I had a nice time." He stood and slipped his jacket on, "I'm just gonna go."

"Pete, come on…"

"See ya, Ivy."

Ivy watched him walk out, in disbelief. She sat alone at the table, in shock, with her head in her hand. She hadn't noticed Michael slide into the empty seat across from her until he spoke.

"What a jerkoff." He said, taking another sip.

Ivy wanted to glare at him.

"I can't believe that guy. Abandoning you like that?"

"Michael—"

"And you don't want the fucking chocolate lava cake. It's garbage. What would you like?"

She didn't speak; she focused on the votive candle on the table before her.

"I cannot believe you just did that."

"Did what?"

Ivy raised her eyes slowly along with one eyebrow. Michael was momentarily jolted by the glare.

"Listen," he said, "I'm sorry. I had no idea he was so sensitive. But I knew you didn't want to drink that shit."

"So you've been watching me the whole night?"

"Not the _whole_ night…"

"But you've been watching me?"

"I'm an observant guy. I can't help it."

"And obviously not a good listener." Ivy shot back, "I specifically told you that we shouldn't be seen together" -she gritted her teeth while she threw her voice into a whisper—"and now you're sitting across from me. We could be _seen_."

"Chocolate lava cake," the waiter presented them with the dessert, "and I brought _two_ spoons—"

"Take it back." Michael said.

"Certainly—sir." The waiter blinked at the change in table companion.

"We'll have the flambe." Michael said.

Ivy narrowed her eyes as he ordered another whiskey. The flambe: a dessert that required the waitstaff to roll a cart with a saute pan to the table and light its contents on fire. A very public display.

And a very specific move, Ivy estimated. She could've chosen to be even angrier than she already was, but she softened.

"You know," she said, finally taking a sip of the Riesling, "you don't have to do all of this."

"All of what?"

"This… display. This grandstanding."

"Hey, all I saw was a lackluster date. And I thought I'd remedy that problem."

"Without any regard for my wishes."

"Well, you sure as fuck didn't want that Moscato."

Ivy contorted her mouth into a reluctant smile, "true."


	3. Chapter 3

"You didn't have to pay for the dinner." Ivy said as they exited the restaurant.

"Oh, I did."

"Thank you anyway—"

"Hey, I know this great place downtown—hidden tiki bar." Michael walked with her to her car, maybe a little too closely.

"I was just planning on going home." Ivy said, "I stick by what I said before: It's probably not wise for us to be seen together—"

Ivy was cut off by the ringing of the burner phone in her purse. She pulled it from her bag and flipped it open.

"Hey Lester," she said as they got to her car, "what's up?"

"I'm sending someone over to you now. Short notice, I know. But this guy tends to fly by the seat of his pants. You available?"

"I am. I can be home in ten."

"All right. He might beat you home. He's en route."

Michael watched as Ivy climbed into her car. He found that his hand opened up the passenger door and he got in beside her. She finished up the call.

"Um. You don't take no for an answer, do you?" She glanced at him as she started the car. "You're coming with me?"

"Who's en route?" Michael didn't want to share Ivy with anyone.

"He's never come to me before—Trevor? Do you know him?"

"Oh, Dear God," Michael rubbed his eyes as she pulled into traffic. "Damn straight I'm coming with you."

"You have a dog, right?" Michael asked as they pulled into her apartment complex's parking lot. "I…do…" she began to get nervous, "Why do you ask?"

"Trevor can be…unpredictable when…unattended…"

Ivy parked quickly, and she and Michael raced across her complex's parking lot and up the stairs to her door. Her heart raced even faster when she found the door ajar. They pushed it open—expecting the worst—and found Trevor sprawled on the couch, beer in hand, flipping through channels with Charlie curled up next to him, sleeping soundly.

"Oh! Thank goodness…" Ivy exclaimed with relief as she ran and knelt by Charlie, who awoke with a happy wag of his tail.

"Charlie? That's his name?" Trevor asked, "I don't know—he told me it was Herman. Whatever. You must be Ivy."

"I am."

"Michael, you were right. She is fucking hot."

Michael glared at Trevor, frozen.

"Welcome to our fucked up family!" Trevor opened his arms to Ivy broadly. "Lester did good, didn't he? Damn!" Trevor ignored the death stare from his friend.

Ivy stood and, with a quick glance at Michael (who wouldn't make eye contact with her), chose not to respond to his comment. Instead, she surveyed the man on her couch. He had some suspicious-looking burns on his forearms, but nothing too serious. Judging from the stains on his pants, possibly some lacerations to the legs as well.

"You… want me to take a look at you?" Ivy began to breathe through her mouth so she wouldn't be overwhelmed by his odor.

"Yes, indeedy." He rose, chugged the beer, crumpled the can, and threw it in the far corner of the living room next to Ivy's midcentury credenza.

"Trevor," Michael said as he sat down on the couch, "remember your manners…"

He burped, shrugged and followed Ivy into the kitchen. She managed to hold her breath to the point of seeing black spots form in her peripheral vision as she treated him.

"Well," she said as she bandaged the lacerations, "it seems you have some…open…sores…that need tending to as well. You may need a round of antibiotics…it looks like that one is….rotting….?"

"Yeah, those are nothing. They've been there for a while."

"Keep them clean with—"

"Nah, I'm good." He rose and farted, "but I have a … question…of a medical nature."

"Shoot." Ivy threw the latex gloves into the garbage and got to scrubbing her hands with hot water.

"There's…something of a back up on the dirty turnpike, if you catch my drift—"

"Jesus, Trevor!" Michael cried from the living room. He rubbed his eyes, embarrassed.

"When was your last bowel movement?" Ivy asked.

"Yesterday. But it wasn't pretty." Trevor said solemnly.

"OK…" Ivy fought a smile, "Well, you can consider drinking more water, adding vegetables to your diet, exercising—"

"I'm looking for a more _immediate_ remedy."

"You could get a laxative. Good Aids pharmacy should have something." She said, "But after, make those lifestyle changes."

"HA!" Trevor laughed, "right, right."

He grabbed another beer from the refrigerator and left.

"So that's Trevor…" Ivy watched him peel out of the parking lot and take off down the street, no doubt to a pharmacy.

"I'm so sorry." Michael groaned, "You may need to disinfect your house. And get Charlie on a flea pill."

"He's…a character…" Far down the street, there was the echoing screech of tires.

"Don't even ask." Michael shook his head, "He's a lot. He usually tends to his injuries himself…hence the sores…So you hopefully won't see very much of him."

"I can handle it." Ivy said, "Reminds me of my days in the ER."

"So….That tiki bar?"

Ivy smiled, unsure, and continued staring out the window.

"Come on," he said, rising from the couch and sauntering over to her, "Look at you—you've got your t-shirt…all…knotted at your hip. Your lipstick is flawless…I think you need to go out."

"I don't know…"

"Leave the burner here." He said, "You're taking the night off."

"All right. One Mai Tai and I'm out."

"I promise."

They took a cab back to his car at the restaurant and headed downtown. The bar was on the fourth floor of a yuppie cafeteria downtown. There was a password to get in. The hostess looked the two over to ensure that they were appropriately dressed. With a quick phone call upstairs, she gave them the go ahead with a nod. Through a dim, orange-hued light, they climbed the staircase.

"What is this place?" Ivy asked.

"Mmmm….just a little hideaway." He said, "it's private. We won't be _seen_…"

"You're making fun of me." Ivy said as another host held open the door to what was a step inside another world: 1940s-styled tiki pan-Polynesian cultural appropriation realness.

"This is insane!" She breathed.

A server led them to a dark booth with a thatched tiki roof in the corner.

"I'll have a Suffering Bastard and the lady will have a Mai Tai." Michael told the server.

Ivy stared in awe at the décor. The music, the lighting, the masks on the wall that definitely transformed one culture's religious relic into a decorative tchotchke…. It was quite a place.

"You like it?" He asked as he watched her. "I'm trying to get a gauge on what you like."

"It's…really something."

Michael's phone rang.

He glanced at the screen. "Oh, shit, excuse me." He held the phone to his ear, "I can't talk now, Trev—what the fuck, dude? Are you-are you actually on the—stop. That's disgusting. I'm hanging up. No, I'm hanging up."

Michael ended the call, rubbed at his face as if to wipe away an image that had assailed his mind's eye, and shook his head.

"…What…just happened?" Ivy dared to ask.

"Well… Trevor wanted me to send along the message: the laxative you suggested worked."

"Oh…god…"

And with that, the drinks appeared before them.

"Anyway," Michael said, "I'll try to keep him away from you."

"You don't have to do that." Ivy laughed, "I can handle him."

"That's the problem. No one can handle him." Michael raised his glass, "to an…eventful evening…"

"…An eventful evening…" Ivy held her glass to his.

Michael had insisted on driving Ivy home and when he pulled up to her apartment complex, he could feel a weight in the air around them. He paused for a moment, put the car in park, and moved to open his mouth to ask her, but she was quick to shut him down.

"Thank you," Ivy said as she unbuckled her seatbelt.

Michael moved his head slightly as if to align their lips, but Ivy smiled tightly. "I've got to go."

He was compelled to grab her by the wrist, to make her stay. But he didn't. Instead, he sat silently, gazing at her, and let her go. His heart was racing.

She bid him an emphatic 'good night' as she got out of his car and crossed the parking lot to her apartment. He watched her as she went and ensured that she got into her unit safely. He sat in his car as he saw the living room light go on, and her silhouette move about tiredly. Michael took a deep breath; yeah, he was in trouble.


	4. Chapter 4

Rain in Los Santos was a rare occurrence, but it seemed that this year, it was raining much more often. Ivy glanced over at her phone on the kitchen table as she cooked dinner: another flash flood alert. The quinoa was almost done when her phone buzzed again. Ivy threw a kitchen towel over her shoulder and looked at the screen again. An unknown number. She let it ring and went back to the stove.

It rang again.

Then a text.

_Pick up._ It read.

The phone rang once more and Ivy answered, dreading what was waiting for her on the other end of the line.

"Hello?"

"Ivy." Michael's voice burst into her ear, sounding urgent and strained.

"Michael, what's up?" She went back to the quinoa. It was ready. "You OK?"

"I need to ask a favor."

"Of me?"

"Yeah." He said and cleared his throat, "You familiar with Sandy Shores?"

"Um. I know of it. I've never been there." Ivy plated the quinoa and then topped it with the waiting sautéed vegetables.

"I need you to get to my house." He said quickly, "I need you to pick up a few things. And bring them to me in Sandy Shores."

"I'm—I'm not sure if I can do that for you, Michael."

"Please, Ivy. Please. Lester can't drive, Franklin is wanted and—please."

"I don't understand why you're asking me."

"Listen," he said, "I… I trust you. Lemme send you my address in Los Santos, and then once you're there, call me back on this number. I'll let you know what you need to get. I gotta go."

"Michael, I can't do this—"

But the line was already dead.

Ivy sat down to her meal and thought as she ate. She shoved the food into her mouth, not tasting anything. She suddenly wasn't hungry but continued eating until she felt sick. When the plate was empty, she shoved it away from her, disgusted at her decision. She grabbed her purse and her medical kit, kissed Charlie good bye, and drove to a swanky Spanish villa-style house in Rockford Hills.

A voice inside of her head started screaming and all the while she crept up the stairs of Michael's house, it warned her: _Don't go any further. There is no going back if you do._

But she ignored it. Her heart was pumping as she stepped into his closet; his smell lingered there, and she found herself inhaling it deeply. From his directions, she found a duffle bag and loaded it with cash that was hidden in the ceiling vent, ammunition, a pump shotgun, and an M4 Carbine.

On her way out, she noticed a shattered picture frame on the floor of the master bedroom, then another on the dresser. A brunette woman in her early forties was in both of the photographs—with Michael. Ivy drew a sharp intake of breath—and was dismayed at how unsteady it was—as she began to realize who that woman was. As she pushed her breath back out from her lungs, she could feel her lip start to quiver with a mixture of rage and shame. She hadn't known. And she had supposed she should have.

Ivy cursed her own stupidity as she stomped down the stairs and went back out to the driveway where she had parked. Rain clouds rolled across the sky and blocked out the moonlight. As she started her car, her phone rang.

"Hey," Michael's voice said quickly on the other end, "could you swing by and pick up Lester on your way? You're on your way, right?"

"Michael—"

"Thanks—I appreciate it."

He hung up.

Ivy held the steering wheel as she laid her forehead against it. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," She whispered angrily to herself before putting the car in gear and going over to El Burro Heights.

"You're in a mood tonight," Lester commented glibly at Ivy's stony silence as they merged onto the freeway toward Sandy Shores.

"I just didn't think my role in all this would include weapons transport." Ivy spat her words in a quiet rage.

"Other duties as required." Lester shrugged, "Didn't I put that in your contract?"

She glanced at him and rolled her eyes with a small, uneven smile.

More silence.

"When I was in his house," Ivy said suddenly, "I noticed—pictures—Michael has…a family?"

"Uh. Yeah. Wife and two kids. Why do you ask?"

"No reason, really." Ivy shrugged with her eyes trained on the road, "I just… it was surprising."

Lester gave a small snort of amusement. "Yeah, I don't think that fact is really relevant to his work, so yeah, it's surprising. They're not exactly…close-knit."

"Hm." Ivy responded as noncommittally as she could.

The drive to Sandy Shores was treacherous. The rain had come pouring in and cars had begun to slide across the freeway. The stretch of the road was all darkness and downpour. Ivy employed some quick reflexes she didn't know she had and swerved in a few close calls.

"I won't tell them how well you drive. They might conscript you." Lester deadpanned.

"OK," Ivy ignored him and adjusted the windshield wipers' speed, "where exactly are we going?"

"Oh," Lester frowned and looked at his phone, "change of plans. We're going to Paleto Bay."

"Christ, even _further_?"

"Oh, quit complaining." Lester said, "You're getting overtime. Don't worry."

Ivy grumbled softly as they continued north. According to Lester's directions, they were to meet in a gas station parking lot. She pulled in and Trevor and Michael were waiting in a car.

"Go around back." Michael instructed.

She did so and he pulled up alongside of her.

"The bag?" He asked.

"It's in the trunk." Ivy nodded back to it as Lester got out of her car and into Michael's.

She stayed in place and stared ahead. She felt Michael's shadow beside her and remained still. He knocked softly on the window. Ivy, without making eye contact, lowered it.

"Hey," he said, "I appreciate this."

She nodded.

"So, what you can do now—"

Ivy shot him a look of shock—she wasn't dismissed?

"—Is go back to Sandy Shores and wait. I sent you Trevor's address, but I'd recommend a motel. I know one that doesn't have bedbugs. Just off 68."

"Michael—I have to go home—"

"Not right now." He said calmly, but it was clear he wasn't listening.

"My job—my dog—it's like 3 am—"

"It's all taken care of."

"What does that mean?"

"I'll pay you."

"I can't just up and leave—"

"Yeah, you can—"

"No, _I can't_." Her voice rose, and he reacted immediately. Michael leaned into the car suddenly so that they were nose to nose. Ivy's instincts told her to pull away, but she met his gaze head on.

"Remember," he said, "you work for _me._"

"Hey, Michael," Lester called from the backseat of the other car, "we have to go."

"I do not work for you!" Ivy cried.

"What? You think Lester's in charge?" Michael sneered.

Lester's mouth became a thin line. Trevor laughed: "Haha! Lester—in charge!"

"Hey, fuck you!" Lester said to Trevor.

"What…did you say?" Trevor turned around slowly.

"What? Nothing." Lester shrugged innocently, but the beads of sweat began to appear at his hairline.

"Thought so…" Trevor turned back and continued cleaning his fingernails with a gravity knife.

"So, this is how you treat someone you need favors from, then?" Ivy asked archly.

Michael exhaled and when the momentary anger left his body, it had deflated him. "I'm sorry. Ivy, look at me—look at—I'm sorry, OK? I just—I need you to stay for a while. Things could go wrong. And we need you up here."

Ivy bit her lip and stared at the clock. "Which motel?"


	5. Chapter 5

Ivy made a quick trip to a convenience store to pick up some toiletries and called the pet sitter before passing out onto the bed and sleeping until the late afternoon. A firm knock at the door jolted her from her nap. She stumbled out of bed and demanded a name without looking through the peephole.

"It's me." Michael said simply.

She opened the door. "Well, you look exhausted."

"Working through the night does that to you."

"Yes, I know." She yawned and stepped back into the room, flopping down onto the bed. "So, what's the timeline here?"

"Everything goes down tomorrow. If you could be waiting at the trailer, I'd say, late afternoon tomorrow, that'd be ideal. Of course, Lester will be sending you details of your morning errand."

"My morning errand?"

"Yeah," Michael shrugged as he sat down in the armchair by the window. He reflexively parted the curtain slightly and peeked out. All clear. He turned back to Ivy and surveyed her long legs; the oversized t-shirt she was wearing showed them off impeccably. "Swing by the hospital in town and pick up supplies…"

"When you say 'pick up'…"

"Lester reactivated your credentials in the system. You'll be picking up medications without any trouble."

"Michael, there are a few things I think we need to discuss—"

"I also wired money to you to cover your pet sitter and any lost wages."

"I—uh—thank you."

"And your cut from yesterday/this morning will be coming through as soon as things clear tomorrow."

"That's fine—I—"

"What was it you wanted to discuss?" He put his feet up onto the small end table by the TV.

"I noticed pictures—um—on the floor of your house." She said plainly, tucking her bare legs beneath her.

"Yeah." Michael said softly, "Listen, Ivy…"

"I'm not sure why," she said, the hurt in her voice causing it to shake, "but I feel like a fool."

"I'm sorry—" He said, running his hand over his face tiredly, "They're gone—my wife and I—we've been having problems for a while. She's had affairs with her yoga instructor and her tennis coach…I haven't been so great either…we're separated."

Ivy was silent. "It seems like an important fact to leave out—"

"OK, OK," Michael rose, "hey, things are chaotic right now. But I guess I can start being honest…"

He sat at the foot of the bed and placed his hands within tantalizing reach of her legs. He moved his mouth slightly to speak, paused as he gathered his jumbled thoughts, and then finally said, "I'm largely a shitty person. But I'd be lying if I didn't think you were making me want to be a better man."

Not at all what Ivy was expecting. At all. In a million years. She stared at him in shock. When she realized her mouth was agape, she closed it suddenly.  
"That's…that's it. That's all I have to say."

Ivy blinked rapidly to help her interpret the information in her brain. The action was futile.

Michael turned a slight shade of pink in the absence of any response from her. He cleared his throat roughly and changed the subject.

"You want to grab a drink?"

"Like…now? Isn't it only like four o'clock?"

"After the morning I've had, I think I deserve it."

"Sure." Ivy smiled in spite of herself, "Why not. Let me jump in the shower first."

Michael nodded and watched Ivy grab some toiletries and a towel from the rack outside of the bathroom.

As Ivy slipped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, Michael could not believe his luck: the door was just open enough to allow him to see a reflection of everything she did in the bathroom mirror. He watched from the bed as she lifted her tank top from her body to reveal a burgundy lace bra., which she deftly unhooked and tossed onto the floor. He felt a rush of adrenaline as she slid her jeans off so that she was only in a pair of white and purple striped underwear. Michael had seen hundreds of women dressed as such, but this felt different.

He chalked it up to his voyeur status; it was exhilarating. Michael laid down on the bed, still within view of the reflection. He watched as she took her hair down and tested the water; a few seconds later, some steam began to flow from the opening in the bathroom door. He reached into his trousers and adjusted himself. He watched her step into the shower.

"Take your time in there," he called, "you deserve it."

"Yeah, don't I know it…" She responded as he watched her knee appear at the edge of the tub; she was shaving her legs.

He cleared his throat and continued to watch her in the mirror against his better judgment. Ivy massaged some dollar store shampoo into her hair. He just saw the outer curve of her left breast through the gap in the shower curtain…

Michael knew he should look away. Look away and turn on the TV. Look away and leave the room. Look away and drive back to Trevor's trailer. Given what he had said to her, the big item he'd just revealed, he should definitely look away.

But he didn't.

As the mirror started to get foggy and began to block his view, Michael deftly undid his belt and pants, reached down and began to relieve the feral urge he'd had since he saw her standing in the motel doorway in that oversized t-shirt. From the bathroom he could hear the water rushing, and Ivy began to sing softly to herself. She wasn't half bad.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, accelerating into a frenetic rhythm. He held his breath and exhaled in fits and spurts. He brought himself to the peak—it was too easy—and then the rush of water stopped, throwing the motel room into silence. His eyes burst open frantically; he was no longer in control.

Ivy threw a towel on in the bathroom and then wrapped one onto her head.

Michael came in a desperate crash as he stifled a groan behind his lips. He then flew into action: he charged at a tissue box on the night table and cleaned himself up, getting rid of the evidence by launching it across the room into the waste basket. He swiftly buttoned his pants, smoothed his hair, and buckled his belt.

Ivy stepped out of the bathroom, skin glistening and holding a towel closed against her breasts, which made Michael ready for round two. She meandered around the room, nonchalantly grabbing various articles of clothing. She went back into the bathroom to change, and then emerged in tight jeans and a low-cut tank top. The burgundy bra, it seemed, was conscripted back into use.

"OK," she said, "ready. Where are we going? Or should I not ask?"

"Just a dive around the corner." Michael shrugged, "lemme just…wash my hands first."

"Let's start with a shot." Michael nodded to the bartender, "whiskey."

Ivy and Michael raised the glasses to each other, "What should we toast to?" He asked.

"Do we need a reason?" Ivy clinked her glass with his and downed the shot. Michael shrugged and did the same.

Both were grateful for the presence of alcohol. It allowed, for them, to ignore pressing matters around them, the chaos, the noise, the complexities. The drinks flowed freely, and the succeeding shots were downed quickly. Soon a comfortable haze of tipsiness bolstered the two of them as they sat at the bar.

Three shots each and four beers in, Michael's hand found its way to the small of Ivy's back. She inched closer to him, and he dove his nose to the spot by the corner of her jaw.

"Jesus, you smell amazing." He murmured into her ear.

Ivy smiled, sipped her beer, and turned to face him. Their foreheads almost touched. He slid off of his stool and wrapped his other hand around her, placing himself into between her thighs.

"You wanna go back to the motel?" She asked softly.

"Let's go." He threw cash down onto the counter, grabbed her hand and led her out the door.

"We're in no condition to drive…" Ivy stumbled in the parking lot, but Michael caught her.

"Nah, I can handle it." He produced the keys from his pocket, but Ivy snatched them quickly and stuffed them into her cleavage, to her slight discomfort.

"I don't think you can. We can walk." She started down the street, and he could do nothing but follow her.

"So responsible!" He called from behind her.

Michael trotted to catch up with her, and when he did, he slung an arm around her shoulders, bringing her close to him. "It's cold tonight out here. Aren't you cold?" He rubbed her arm, which felt cool to the touch.

"I don't really feel it." She commented, "maybe it's the beer."

Ivy stopped and faced him. She laid her hands on his chest to warm them. They locked eyes and Michael leaned in closer to her. Ivy pulled away, but only slightly.

"If we do this," she said, "you must be honest with me."

"Understood."

"And after the errand tomorrow," she said firmly as she slid her hands up his body and threw her arms around his neck, "I'm not doing anything besides medical care."

Her closeness, her soft breath hitting his neck, was more intoxicating than the whiskey. He closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in it, and nodded to her demand. She drove a ruthlessly hard bargain; got him while he was drunk and painfully horny. A smart cookie.

Ivy raised her eyebrow, satisfied, and continued walking, now neatly tucked underneath his arm. As they made their way back to the motel, Michael let himself ponder some feelings, which he didn't usually allow. He thought about how much he absolutely loved having Ivy beside him. He thought about how much relief he felt being around a woman who was sharp-witted and intelligent. The view he had of her ass as she walked up the stairs to her room was the closest he'd gotten to perfection in a long time. In his drunken whimsy, he attempted to plan his moves in his head for once they got in the room. She fumbled with the key at the door.

"This damn thing…" She muttered as the lock reluctantly turned.

"Speaking of keys, " he quipped as his hand slid from her back, over her shoulder and down her breast, "I'll be needing these back."

Ivy adjusted her shirt and led him into the room.

"C'mere…" Michael slurred as he pushed her gently onto the bed.

"Hold on a sec," she rose and went to the bathroom to change.

When Ivy emerged, clad in just underwear and a bra, Michael was passed out on the bed. She poked, she prodded, but he was out.

"So close."

With an exasperated huff, she slipped off his shoes, shirt, and pants and tucked him under the covers. Then, she slipped into bed. Ivy killed the lights and laid next to him in the darkness, gazing at his dark figure. She caressed his hairline for a quick moment before drifting off herself.


End file.
